I visited Bird Street, Flower Street, and Fish Street yesterday, perfect examples of how Hong Kong has developed in a very concentrated manner. Each street is one long row of stores related to one type of thing, and people can come to shop around from an overwhelming selection of a specific market. Bird Street was the most interesting though, because it starts off as a stone walkway with signs warning that no dogs are allowed. The walkway is surrounded by trees on both sides, and people congregate there to hang their birds in their cages on the branches, and socialize. Walking further on, one is greeted by endless rows on rows of birds in front of stores. The sound of birds chirping can be thickly heard from the street over.

A few days ago, an elderly woman well past the age of retirement served me in a popular, modern tea shop, enthusiastically telling me to take my time in looking over the menu and deciding what I wanted to order. She would constantly thank me for the patronage, even before I ordered anything, and was probably more than twice the age of anyone else working there.

The culture here is very accepting of senior citizens. They have active jobs, and often walk around with their children and grandchildren instead of hiding in rest homes. This is partly due to the fact that living space is extremely expensive, so families end up living together for their entire lives. My eldest paternal uncle, his wife and daughter all currently live with my grandmother (in a roughly 1000 square foot apartment), and have been doing so for almost their entire lives. Generally it’s the parents that work, while the retired grandparents become the babysitters, the grocery shoppers, etc. Everyone is willing to be patient when waiting for a slow old lady to cross the street at an excruciating pace, or help any elderly with canes get on and off the buses. I caught some grandparents taking their grandchildren to school, and it reminded me of my maternal grandparents flying to Canada to take care of me when my parents were working on their careers and I had no school in the summer.

All the beggars here are elderly, unlike the younger ones back home. They can’t afford operations for their cataracts and have already lost their minds. These are people with barely enough strength to stay awake or shake their bowls, people who don’t ask for money to buy cigarettes or booze. It’s hard to look at because they remind me too much of my grandparents. I start to imagine them abandoned on the street, and wonder who could do such a thing.

When I was young, my maternal grandparents came to Canada from Hong Kong to look after me. It was summer and my parents were working while I was left at home. I had no friends, so much of my time was spent being entertained by my grandfather.

He was born and raised in China, and studied at one of the universities there after high school. Being able to attend university was quite an accomplishment back then, and he had only one year left before civil war broke out. He joined the ill-fated Nationalist side, where he would have had a chance to be a comissioned officer had there not been a need for English speaking Chinese people. He spoke English fluently, so he was used as a translator for the British troops. He recovered from a shot to the arm, and fled to Hong Kong to avoid prosecution when the war was over. There he met my grandmother, and assumed a career as a meteorologist.

I knew him as a large, but delicate man, who always took the time to explain things to me (something quite rare for a kid who’s only six or seven). I spent the warm summer days following him around, playing with him, learning from him. Eventually, he became my favourite person in the world, the first person I’ve ever looked up to.

On the day that my grandfather passed away, I was crushed. It was my first family death ever, and when my mother gave me the news, all I could think about was how I would never have him as my teacher again.

Eventually, I went to Hong Kong to take some time off from the North American world, and learn more about my family history. I stayed at my uncle’s house, the same house that my grandfather bought over 40 years ago. It was December, and Hong Kong winters are pleasantly brisk, so I stepped outside onto the balcony after waking up and getting dressed. There was an elderly man in white socks and black shoes holding a little girl wearing Mary Janes’ just below. The man, who bore a striking resemblance to my grandfather, was keeping his granddaughter company while she waited for the school bus to come. I liked how frail, yet tenacious, they looked, as if this weak old man would protect this little girl to the death. Seeing them sitting there, a patient man with a doll of a girl in his arms, reminded me of my grandfather, a strong and gentle man all at once.

And it made me happy to know that he was not the only one.

I took a bus up to the base of Tai Tam mountain, and hiked to the summit. The path isn’t too treacherous, but can be quite narrow and has no railing on the sides to prevent falls. The ground is mostly covered in uneven footing, making the trek hard on the ankles if one doesn’t have proper footware. People young and old alike make the trip, because it’s one of the cheapest and healthiest pasttimes available. The mountainside has very fresh air, something that the concentrated Hong Kong metropolis has lost from the height of the buildings and the diesel tanks of the automobiles. The peak offers a great view of the more sophisticated side of Hong Kong, such as executive golf courses, beaches, and luxury living. Being able to see so many things from one point gives one a a tremendous feeling of magnificence.

I got back from camping on Monday, and had a great time. We went up as a group of 16, divided into three sites. I resumed my role as the token Chinese guy, since I was the only one on the entire campground. The sites were less than a three minute walk away from each other. Activities consisted of badminton, ultimate frisbee, reading, or just lounging. It was 20 degrees during the day so a lot of the time was spent in the shade. At night it dropped down to about 8 degrees, leaving most people shivering in their sleeping bags or huddled around a campfire.

Some tried to swim, but the water was so cold that they ended up wading. There was a competition every day to see who could stay neck deep in the water the longest, but they all ended in ties when everyone agreed that the idea was silly and that suffering through the icy water was not worth the potential bragging rights.

Most people brought quite a bit of alcohol (Wheaties actually got a 2-8 just for himself), and we were caught twice on the first night for having open alcohol containers off the sites. Fortunately, it was by two different groups of rangers, so we got two warnings, instead of a warning and then a fine with eviction.

Even when relaxing on the campground, with no time limits and no schedules, I discovered that politics had followed me there, to a place where one is supposed to forget the stress and conflicts of daily life. It’s such a pity that life can be so complicated in the midst of such serene simplicity, when the only thing that one should worry about is how much beer one has left or whether a fire will be going in time for dinner.

Something that I’ve long realized is that the politics of life are everywhere, mostly prevalent in uncommunicative or secretive situations. An uncertain attraction, a group of people with mutual dislike for someone, or perhaps even varied appropriateness in varied company are all typical examples I’ve most commonly run across and dealt with.

I always try to remain out of such complex affairs, in order to simplify my life, in order to have clarity. By doing so, I find that things are much less uncertain, and I thus have less to worry about. Of course, life thrusts me into such situations whether I’m willing to participate or not. After all, people will forever be upset by others. I find that I’ve been able to understand and survive these situations with increasing consistency.

It’s quite a different story when I am personally involved.

The weekend sky was aching orange with the charm of thick falling snow. It felt good to be so warm and in the midst of such cold, with the silence of such visual delight.

The Honest Lawyer on Saturday was good. I have never, ever, tasted better fries. They were dark, crispy, not too thick and not too thin, and salted perfectly. They were even presented well in a cone shaped wrapping in a metal holder, with two dips attached. The atmosphere there was well done, with unique lighting and well arranged tables. The only problem was the music, which was turned up so loud that people couldn’t speak to each other. By the end of the night, I had to take some Chinese herbal throat medicine so that I would still have my voice the next day. I had a better time at Trolley’s place beforehand, when we could actually talk to each other. At one point, the girls ordered a chocolate fondue for dessert, and left about half the pot full of chocolate dip.

Aaron, being the sugar addict that he is, started to drink from the fondue pot. I was left holding my brownie half-covered (which happened to be sweet enough already).

I can’t decide whether I should buy the strings tribute to Tool, Third Eye Open. I really have no idea what to expect, in terms of how good the music will be. I would more readily purchase it if I could walk down to a music store and find it, but it seems rare enough that even Record Runner doesn’t carry it. I also discovered Strung Out on OK Computer, which is a string tribute to my favourite Radiohead album, which I have to consider getting as well.

I also found a song called Les Feuilles Mortes, when sung in French, and Autumn Leaves when sung in English. The English lyrics are alright, but the French sounds much better. The first version I had was by Yves Montand, who sings it perfectly with a great pronunciation, but at the end of the song the audience tries to clap in unison with the beat and fails miserably, ruining the song completely. I was able to find a few other versions as well. The one by Diana Krall is a little too simple to enjoy. One by Edith Piaf is good, and she sings well in both languages, but her vibrato is too shrill. There’s a decent Nat King Cole version, but the old style and poor recording quality don’t bode well for it. There’s even a Miles Davis with John Coltrane version, but unfortunately, it’s missing the lyrics and recognizable melody. An odd version by Paul Mauriat is done with synth and cheezy instrumentals, and is possibly the worst one I’ve heard so far. A good modern one done by Cold Cut has a very electronic feel to it, but lacks the lyrical content that the others have. My favourite version so far is by Sarah Vaughan, where she’s able to sing the jazz babble with precision and grace, while displaying her gigantic vocal range. The first time I heard it, it blew my mind away. I might just end up cutting out the clapping of the audience in Yves Montand version if I can’t find a good one.

I figured out the four peasant build. I LUF IT.